Supposing you would sing
About love in the spring,
Something like this will be just the thing.
Tell the reader to behold
The gay
Tints of the cloud-dappled morn!
Then streak the azure with gems set in gold,
And bring into view
Some Tyrian hue,
Mix'd with indigo blue.
Then the meads must be spangled ,
And glittering grove
With OCEANS of dew!
Whew!!

But now you must mind
That rhymes you must find
For lines left behind,
You therefore must rove ,
Say
On any day
About the fag end of May,
And bid lilacks adorn
Your beautiful morn;
And the thickets must be tangled
For the sake of your spangled .

Now having found
Yourself on firm ground,
You may roam along the edges
Of hawthorn hedges;
Then bid beds of roses
And pretty pink posies
Ravish our eyes and captivate our noses!!!
Interweave, if you will,
The hyacinth and daffodil,
With now and then a big weed
Of purslain and of pig weed,
And add fragrant crops
Of potatoe tops,
And scatter, here and thereabout,
As many hops
As you may please to care about;
And, between whiles,
Say
That Nature smiles,
In her new holiday
Dress; —
Nevertheless,
These beauties so rare
Can never compare
With the dear little dove
With whom you're in love.

Next glance a quick eye
To the flame cinctur'd, multihu'd arch in the sky; —
In our vernacular idiom call'd a rain bow,
Which perhaps the unpoetick reader would fain know.
Then positively declare ,
That Amanda the fair,
Who really beats the Dutch,
Exceeds as much
All such
As does a fine lilack silk gown
The dirtiest grogram in town.
Then bid your muse higher fly,
And say your queen of lasses
Each country wench surpasses,
Yea, far more excells
Your Moggies and Nells,
Then doth the noontide blaze the scintillating fire fly.